Vignette:Perseverance

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Perseverance

Neuhagener Weg 7, Metropolitan Sungkou, Provisional State of Sungkou
January 11th, 1926
T

he elm trees sway gently, dancing with the winter breeze. They’ve been stripped bare of their leaves for some time now, the sight of which is rare given how close to the equator he is. Likewise, the plants in his room have shrivelled up and rotted away. He never found much motivation to keep them alive, after all. He still remembered when he first moved in: the ferns were a vibrant shade of green, and if the sun shined on it at the right angle it would’ve looked like fresh amber.

It sickened him. It felt like after all he’d gone through–the flight from home, the encounters with the Reds, the ocean of frightened faces clambering for a chance to escape armageddon–he had to live in this god-awful government housing as if the war had never happened. Sungkou, admittedly, was for the most part untouched by the war; at most, it received a couple of naval bombardments and a purposely wrecked ship blocking the harbour, courtesy of nearby New Valentina. He’d gotten too used to the misery of wartime, he supposed. The uneasy black of night, the diminishing rations, the sound of sons crying for their mothers, and the whistles.

Something still shrieks in his ears. He can’t tell if it’s his officer, his whistle, or his friends screaming.

Early into his exile, he struggled to open his eyes and get out of bed. Even if he’d slogged through that, going outside drained him. In the warmer months, the heat and humidity mixed into something noxious; the refugee camp's conditions only exacerbated the nasty aura. As much as Sungkou had tried to drain the swamps, the sickening atmosphere remained. He enjoyed the colder months' respite; the temperature reminded him of his family’s summer cottage in Kalkhorst. Inhaling his cigarette, he wondered if Berndhall was still standing. He wondered if anyone he knew had gotten out. Silently, he prayed.

Three knocks at his window make him flinch from his seat; he’d let his mind wander too far. He rouses himself from his seat, walking towards the small bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. The response is immediate; he groans as the numbed nerves in his face arise to respond to the cold. The towel is threadbare, but it does its job wiping the sweat forming on his forehead, as well as the water. Returning to the rest of his lodging, he gets ready for the day; there’s a whiny creak from the floorboards with each step as he retrieves his belongings. He remembers to lock the door behind him; he reminds himself that nobody can close it for him here.

He begins his daily routine by heading for the docks.


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